To Realize
by wanderinggypsyfeet
Summary: To realize is to grasp or understand clearly or to make real; give reality to (a hope, fear, plan, etc.). Jon realizes exactly who Sandor Clegane really is, while Sandor realizes something else entirely about Lady Sansa Stark. A one-shot, post 7x07, where upon reuniting at Winterfell, true alliances come out, and everyone realizes things they can hardly understand.


**AN:** Ok, so I've been writing a longer form GOT SanSan fic, but all the sudden I had this idea and couldn't shake it, so here's my first published foray into the couple that I've began to love so much.

* * *

Jon knows he should be paying attention. After all, they are trying to figure out a way to win this damn war against the Night King. And he needs to wrap his mind around what's going on with Dany- her grace- and if this is all a mistake. But he can't, not right now, and he gives himself this moment to savor and cherish, because right now, he's home. He's sitting at the head table of Winterfell, in the center, where his father once sat, and he is King in the North, no matter how temporary the title might be. To his left, sitting close enough to him that he can smell the lavender soap she uses, sits Sansa. And to his right, close enough that he can reach over and mess up her hair, sits Arya.

His sisters, his little sisters, safe and back at Winterfell. He's still in a state of blissful shock, at having ridden through the gates and seen Arya standing there, wide eyed like she was ten years old again. She'd leapt into his arms, and he hadn't cared what any of his men had thought. She was safe, and she was home, and that was all that mattered. Bran too, is here, and though he is unnerved at the changes he'd gone through, and the way he watches him, Jon is thankful to have his family home and safe.

"I am not going anywhere." Sansa argues and he glances at her. Her hands are fists atop the table, and she is glaring at Davos, who seems unabashed in his suggestions.

"Me either." Arya says firmly and he chances a look at Dany, who's face betrays no emotion.

"All I suggested was that it may be best for the ladies to remain elsewhere. The army of the undead is coming, and who are they to be sitting here in harms way?" Davos is trying to make his point, but Arya is having none of it.

"Capable fighters, perhaps." She keeps her tone level, but her eyes flick to both Brienne and Dany, knowing they will be her allies here.

"Those who have survived worse." Sansa's eyes flash and Dany looks steadfastly at his younger sister. He'd told Dany, or rather alluded to it, of what Sansa had endured first in Kings Landing, then here in Winterfell. He sees in Dany's eyes, how much she respects Sansa. He hopes that the two will talk, and with Arya, and realize they have more in common than they might have in differences.

"We want to keep you safe." Davos has a point, he can't deny it, but he can't bring himself to argue with his sisters right now.

"I am Sansa Stark, of Winterfell!" Sansa's voice rises a little higher. "I won't leave my home! The dead can come, they can do their worst. If I am to die, I will do it here, with my ancestors and my family!"

"Sansa." He rests a hand on her shoulder. "We know. We won't make you leave." He turns to Davos, who sighs.

"I don't want to see them hurt." He tells Jon quietly and Sansa's eyes soften. She and the older man had gotten along well, in their time at Castle Black, and she knows this isn't a push to take her home from her. Still, Jon knows that Sansa will never leave Winterfell. Never again.

"Then this may be the safest place for them." Jon reminds his advisor carefully. "We are based here, and we have supplies here. Fighters, too. I would never risk my sisters either, nor my brother. They stay here."

"Besides, while everyone else fights, I need to be here." Sansa isn't done yet and though Jon is happy that she has seemingly found her voice, he wishes she would be quiet. He had told Dany, during their journey to his home, that the northerners wouldn't take to her unless she proved to be worthy of their loyalty. He'd pleaded with her not to take offense, but to show them her strength and wisdom like she'd shown him, and to let them have their fears. They would fight for her, in time, he promised. But they only followed the worthy, and it was so rarely someone from the south held that honor from them. Dany had taken his advice, but he wonders if she will permit Sansa to speak so boldly. "I have people here."

"Yes," Dany says quietly, and all heads snap to her. "You have done great work, Lady Sansa, and for that, I thank you."

"It will be a long winter." Sansa is as unsure of Dany, still feeling her out. Jon can't blame her. His mind is still reeling from what had occurred moments before in the courtyard. He hadn't expected Tyrion to kiss Sansa's hand, nor for her to smile down at him. Then there had been the way Arya had beamed at Brienne, and how surprised he'd been to see Sam. The whole group of them had moved to the hall, before the rest of the lords arrived. He, Dany, Sansa, Ayra, Bran, Brienne, Pod, Tyrion, Davos, Missandei, Grey Worm, Varys, Sandor, Jorah, and Sam. An odd group, to be certain. "And my people need to be cared for."

"Our people," Dany gently but firmly corrects her. "Will endure much before the winter ends, and we will ask much of them."

"Are they our people?" Sansa's words are biting. "Because forgive me, but I don't think that you have any idea of what it is like to survive a northern winter."

"They will be our people." He can see Dany's fist clench and he knows she wants to lash out. "I will go through this with them. With you."

"Southern rulers always flee." Sansa is still angry, but Jon doesn't stop her. Dany will face all these arguments from the northern lords, shortly. It's best she makes sure she has answers now. "If it becomes hopeless, will you flee to your island and your keep with your dragons, and turn your back on us?"

"I am not Cersei." Dany rises now, to match Sansa, who eyes her with utter steel. "I am not her, and to accuse me of being like her is-"

"Is?" Sansa waits pointedly for an answer. "What, treason? I will not be stopped from uttering my opinions to appease a ruler. I am done. I will be heard, and I will hold you accountable."

"Is this the game you want to play?" Dany asks, and all the heads in the room, regardless of who they are allied to, or who they think they are allied to, swivel back and forth between the two women. Jon is about to stop it, when Sansa breathes,

"I have been playing."

"And do you know what happens in a game of thrones, Sansa Stark?" Dany looks up at her, without fear, and he sees a flash of steel in Sansa's eyes.

"Are you asking me to die?"

Abruptly, Sandor Clegane rises and Jon glances at him, a little bemused. He'd seen, of course, the reunion between him and Arya. It'd been strangely touching, in the strangest way possible, but he had heard a little bit of the story from Clegane, while they traveled, of how he'd done his best to keep Arya safe from all those who wished her harm. He wants to warn Sansa to back down, because he knows that Clegane is a vicious fighter. He's surprised, certainly, that Clegane feels like defending Dany. Clearly, he does, because his hand rests on his sword, and those eyes and fixed very firmly on the small queen, mouth curled into a snarl. Before Jon can say anything to diffuse the tension in the room, Sansa raises her hand.

It's not Dany that she's signaling, but Clegane, he realizes with astonishment. He is stunned into silence when Clegane's vision flickers to Sansa, and with a simple twist of her hand, she offers him back him seat. He waits, absolutely still, until she nods slightly. Then, without betraying more than a glimpse of emotion, he sits down and keeps his eyes very firmly fixed on Sansa. Everyone in the room, from Tryion who looks as flabbergasted as Jon feels, to Arya, who's mouth twitches up in something like humor, is watching them. Dany, unsure of what just happened, tries to return to the conversation.

"I would never ask that of you, Lady Stark. I am simply referring to the fact that we are all stronger together, and I hope that we will always be united against our common enemy. Enemies, as I may say." Dany is also clearly trying to understand what happened, sneaking a glance out of the corner of her eyes at him, but he offers nothing back. He's not even sure how the hell his sister came to seemingly command as fearsome a warrior as Sandor Clegane, who, as far as he knew, took no vows and held no loyalties.

How do they even know each other? He knows they must've crossed paths during Sansa's time at Kings Landing. He guarded the Lannister boy she was to marry, surely he must've guarded her occasionally as well. If anything, he was worried they might hate each other. He tries to remember if they'd shown any familiarity before this moment- back in the courtyard when they'd entered? He was so caught up in reuniting with Arya, with Bran and Sam, that he'd hardly noticed anyone else. Could Sansa have greeted him and Jon hadn't noticed?

He keeps an eye on the pair of them, as the meeting goes on, and realizes that while Sansa may not look at him, Clegane's eyes never once stray from her. When Tyrion says something that implies Sansa might be in danger, his eyes briefly flick to the short man, before deciding it's not a threat and going back to Sansa. It would be fascinating, if Jon wasn't worried about the fate of the entire world in his hands. With that, he resolves to deal with this situation, whatever it may be, and go back to the simple things- fighting and killing white walkers, and ending the Night King.

* * *

Sandor stands outside the hall, waiting. He's not even sure what he's waiting for, not anymore. Her? The end of the world? His brother? It doesn't matter. He stands here and he waits, with rather baited breath, and can't help but review everything that has happened since he entered the gates of Winterfell and had seen her there in the snow, like a long forgotten dream.

She was beautiful now, or more beautiful then before. Grown now, with sure and strong wings. No soft pastels for her anymore either. Not a singing bird from the southern isles in pinks and blues. A winter hawk, with black feathers that shine. Except for that same damn hair, and those same damn eyes. Eyes that had found him the second he'd ridden into the courtyard. Of course, then she'd made a show of greeting everyone else. Hugged her brother, and chirped the right words at the dragon queen. Greeted everyone with the same polite hospitality that belonged so well to the Lady Stark, of Winterfell.

Except him.

No, when she'd came to him, amidst the chaos of the men and the horses, when everyone was distracted with hugs or horses or heat, she hadn't chirped a single word at all. She'd been silent, too damn silent, too damn still, that he was trembling before she even reached for him. She'd reached up, rested her hand on his scarred cheek, the same spot she'd rested it all those nights ago when the world had burned and yet the light had left his life.

"Sandor Clegane," She'd said, all breathlessly, and he'd had to stop himself from falling to his knees on the spot and begging her mercy then and there. He'd been frozen then, frozen amongst the snow and mud, absolutely useless, still so enchanted and transfixed by the girl in front as he had been, years ago. Had they stood in this very spot, when she'd been Ned Stark's pretty daughter, and he the vicious bodyguard to a mewling quim of a prince? How many years had passed? How many chances gone? And yet, here they stood regardless.

"Lady Stark," He had called her by her proper name, because she was a proper lady now, wasn't she? And he, not even a ser, but what? A brother without a banner? Never. But he hadn't had any other words for her, not this time. Thankfully, she'd had the words. She always did, didn't she? That's why they worked, wasn't it? For every rough, harsh word he said, she could answer back with five pretty ones of her own.

Balance, he thought. Like a perfect sword.

She'd held both his cheeks then, and had whispered, "We have so much to talk about. After this?"

"Aye," He'd said, and it sounded like only a couple tentacles of a kraken were strangling him, rather than many. Her smile then was like something out of the songs she'd trilled, long ago, when she was still the kind of girl who could sing songs of love and chivalry and happiness. Then she'd strode inside, and left him in the cold, feeling very much like he was stranded in Dorne.

The meeting hadn't held much interest for him, except to note that apparently now, by virtue of his journey north of the wall, he was some sort of trusted advisor, or loyal solider. He'd gotten to sit on a meeting with all his former betters, and it was strangely nice, if not mostly strange, to be included in such a thing, even if he didn't once speak up or make a comment. The only comment he'd made had been with his sword, and it had been a short one at that.

He was already on edge, with the suggestion that Sansa, and possibly Arya, though he chuckled to see who would dare try her, would be removed from Winterfell. Part of him was vigorously for it. The further she was from the incoming threat, the better. Preferably the two of them, hidden away in some tower or keep or ship, alone. He firmly kept his mind from wandering to the possibilities, reminding himself that could happen when he was alone in his bunk. The other part of him though, railed against anything that would displease her. She wanted to be here, and more so, she belonged here. Already, he could see that, when she told them about how the grain storages were looking, and what she had done to make sure the weak and helpless were getting away.

All he'd known was that he needed to be close to her. He'd made the mistake of letting her go, once, and he would never do it again. Where she went, he would follow. And just when he'd come to that very firm conclusion, Dany had made some sort of threat against her. Insinuated that Sansa was going to die, playing the stupid game of thrones. And then he'd done something very stupid.

He'd stood up, flashed his loyalty for all to see. Hand on sword, ready to draw, ready to fight. He could not have declared himself more prominently for House Stark, for Sansa, if he'd pranced around in a direwolf banner and nothing else. All eyes had came to him, and he'd seen a lot of confusion, from Dany, from Jon, from Tyrion. He'd seen a sort of glee, or triumph in Arya's eyes, and calm understanding in Jorah's, of all people.

Sansa hadn't looked surprised in the slightest. He didn't think she would be. After all, she'd known all these years. She had to have known, because even he couldn't be dumb enough to mess up showing her that he would do anything for her. Die for her. Fight for her. Defend her. And yes, love her, utterly and truly, for as long as he could, as long as she allowed.

She'd raised her hand, a simple gesture, the meaning as clear as if she'd shouted it at him. It said 'I'm alright, I can handle this'. And then when she'd gestured for him to sit again, he'd waiting, until she'd nodded in reassurance. He liked that she was confident now, instead of the scared little bird, beating her wings hopelessly against the gilded cage. She had room to soar her, and soar she did.

He hadn't cared what anyone else had thought. All that mattered was keeping her safe, happy, content. He'd do nothing else, he'd follow her orders, and do so until he died or she sent him away. She was the most important thing, his little bird, and he wasn't about to see her cast aside because some woman from across the sea thought it was her turn to play on the Iron Throne.

After the meeting had been interrupted by the arrival of the lords, he'd slipped away. He had no desire for them to sit and stare, all wondering at how Jon convinced the notorious Hound to join his cause. He'd have to snarl, growl, bark at them. They'd stare at his scars, at his build, at his everything, and he was so tired, from traveling, from being nervous and alert with her. He wanted her, and he wanted sleep. He wasn't picky in the order that happened.

So now he is standing outside, pacing, overthinking. She doesn't want him. She only speaks to him because he's a fighter. Does she hate him for leaving her? No more than he already hates himself. Will she send him away? Will she be embarrassed at his actions? Will she chide him? Will she remind him of all the times he simply sat by and let them beat her? Will she-

"Sandor." He stops pacing, turning. There she stands in the hallway, looking a little dazed. He's to her in three strides, before hesitating. All his questions come rushing back into his empty skull, and before he can stop himself, he croaks,

"Do you- Hate- Me?"

Why the hell does she always reduce him to some pathetic boy?

"No." Sansa suddenly bursts into laughter. "No, no, I don't. I just found out Arya is a Faceless assassin, and Bran is a magical being that can see all of time, and there are dragons hunting outside my walls, an army of dead is coming right for me, and my half brother Jon, my bastard brother Jon, isn't that at all." She bends in two from the laughter and he reaches out, a little concerned. She looks up at him with the most radiant, beautiful smile. "No, the whole world has gone crazy, and all I know to be true is that I do not hate you, Sandor Clegane, quite the opposite."

"Are you sure?" He watches her unsurely and she's still beaming, when she takes his face in her hands again. Now, without her gloves, he can feel her soft, warm skin and the hallway is suddenly a desert.

"More sure than I am of anything." She whispers and there's something in her eyes, precious and breakable, that he has to duck his head and bow to her.

"Then I swear to be your shield, and protect you from what's coming, if you'll have me."

"Rise." She says gently, hand on his neck, slowly going to tangle into his hair and when he stands in bewilderment, that thing in her eyes has only grown. "I already have a sworn shield, Sandor."

"Ah." He recalls Brienne then, and the resentment against her bubbles up again. Must she take everything from him?

"But there are other vows to be said, that can bind you to me." Sansa is stroking his neck, and he's not sure he'll ever breathe properly again. He doesn't understand her meaning, and she smiles. "I'll not be letting you go anywhere, ser."

"Not a ser." He mutters and Sansa's smile only seems to grow.

"I know." Then she's pushing him back into the wall and kisses him, and though his mind spins at her words, all he realizes is that he will always be at her command now.

* * *

 **AN:** Partly inspired by the hope that if we get a reunion between Sandor, Jon, Sansa, and Arya in season 8, there's so much history there, things are bound to come out! And well, let's be real, Sandor is only ever going to listen to Sansa, and Arya is only ever going to be amused/weirded out by her sister's choice in men. Ugh this ship. Leave me reviews? Let me know what you thought? Check back in later for more one-shots and longer stories? (Season 8 is so far away!) Thanks for reading!


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